Poem For Certain Critics

Ears listening to only their lies, And their lies speaking only to them, Trying to be quiet yet still screaming, Drowning in rants never heard, So concise but not too clear, Imprisoned in thoughts of obsession, Muttering useless ancient literary rules, In love with yet hating poetic expressions, Foreign to their limited constrained imaginations, Trapped behind walls of old thought, Grasping yet never holding reality, While visions of punctuation and conformity crowd their tiny unexpanded minds, Judging without thinking one step ahead, Thinking thoughts that kill their judgement, Still their bodies move forward to nowhere, Their voices the only sound left to comfort them, Unaware of love just beneath their windows, Desolation blinds their desperate micro-management brains, In pathetic awe of ancient written rules, Never really meant for ones of their ilk, For they were penned for poets of consciousness, Aware their times and rules would surely end, Were never truly meant for all the centuries, Suffocating in the dust of a past they never lived, Afraid of new ideas of written expression, Created from the minds of what they fear most, Free thinking writers unafraid of literary change, And still, They talk and talk and talk, saying absolutely nothing. Copyright © 2015 Robert William Gruhn - All Rights Reserved "A poem to me is the essence of any thought, Being built from its foundation into tower scraping sky. It can fly like no other bird to places never seen, Even spaceships can only dream of taking its place." © 2015 Robert William Gruhn